


Thankfulness

by PatPrecieux



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Issues, Homophobic Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21576679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/pseuds/PatPrecieux
Summary: When faced with impossible odds Sherlock realizes his biggest regret and has but one thought, "Please, God, let them live."
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 42
Kudos: 131





	Thankfulness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlwaysJohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/gifts), [ChrisCalledMeSweetie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/gifts), [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts).



> Thankfulness: To be aware and express appreciation or gratitude for.

The freezing windowless room stank of piss and shit and had a pervasive scent of old blood and putrid flesh. The smell hit his nostrils with a déjà vu that spoke of others who had met their fate in this concrete hell. The floor was covered in a light sheen of moisture that had caught the Detective Inspector, Sherlock and his blogger off guard. It was ill suited to their slick soled street shoes and put them at an immediate disadvantage. 

On the surface Ian Hunter and his son Sean had appeared harmless enough. Two robbers who had been pilfering their way through the poshest neighborhoods of central London until they made the mistake of targeting Baker Street that night. Just home from their local, Sherlock and John along with Greg had interrupted the pair and given chase. Three against two, and the son not much more than a boy, had seemed good odds and the game was on with little thought given to weapons or backup.

What they couldn't have known was that they had made the acquaintance of an older son, Henry, during an investigation resulting in his incarceration where, unfortunately, he had become the victim of a prison riot and was killed. The entire crime spree had been carefully engineered to lead them to this place where the father fully intended to revenge the death of his first born. 

Later they would blame the pints consumed for their recklessness but, whatever the reason, they were now in a fight for their lives. John had managed to temporarily incapacitate the younger man with a chokehold but the older Hunter had drawn a revolver from his jacket and fired. Greg went down, unconscious, his hand clutching his neck as blood oozed between his fingers. Whipping around in surprise John lost his footing and began to fall as the gun was fired again. 

Sherlock was quick to deduce the situation. From what he could see, Greg's wound was superficial but luckily, if such a thing could be considered lucky, it had produced a visible amount of blood. The second shot had gone astray due to John's collapse but he too had been knocked out when his head hit the floor. Sean was coming around from the drubbing John had given him and although he was woozy it was now two against one with the still loaded gun in play.

He knew fighting his way out was not an option. To attack the father would leave him vulnerable to the son and to attack the son the opposite, both scenarios leaving Greg and John to the mercy of the deranged Ian. So Sherlock did the only thing he reasoned had any chance of success.

Suddenly reducing himself to a cowering, quivering coward he began to wail pitifully, "You've killed them. You fiends, you've killed them both." So saying he threw himself down primarily across John's prone body but also covering Greg as best he could. Then he began to sob uncontrollably.

"There ya see, boy, he's no more than a sniveling little bitch crying over the fag he shares his arse with and the queer copper who fucks his brother. When we kill this last cunt the world will be no worse off for the loss of 'em. Might even go after that bastard Mycroft after we enjoy telling him every detail of our triumph here, yeah?"

"Da, you never said we was killin' no one. Won't bring Henry back and you and me will be deep in the hole."

Ian backhanded his son viciously and sneered, "Whad ya think we was about you stupid knob? If ya got no stomach for man's work go out and guard the door. Don't expect no interruption but you're less than useless here. Go on while I finish my business with the 'great' Sherlock Holmes. Get out!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

While the conversation swirled around above him, Sherlock's mind was filled with what he guessed would be his final thoughts. If he had been successful, and it was likely he had, Hunter would kill him and leave with his son never bothering to check that Greg and John were actually dead. He recollected the early days with John when he had so haughtily asked him what he would say if he thought he was dying and John had answered, "Please God let me live." Now feeling John's warm body safely protected by his and knowing Greg wasn't in critical danger, he sent a prayer up to something he wasn't really sure he believed in and implored, "Please God let them live."

The threat to Mycroft had brought a terrible crushing weight to his chest as a lifetime of regret welled up inside him. Mycroft, his big brother, who had never done anything but care about him even if he sometimes, hell most of the time, went about it badly with a clumsiness not seen in his professional world. The insecure, pudgy preteen who had fought Sherlock's battles for him when he was bullied. The young man just starting out in a career that would take him to the highest echelons of his country's service who crawled through human debris to find him every time the lure of the needle had thrown him into another den of degradation and hopelessness. And the older, less rigid man Mycroft had become at last judging himself worthy of loving and being loved who was Sherlock's greatest supporter as he and John finally made their way to each other. 

It was Mycroft, it had ALWAYS been Mycroft and still was. Now he had the fate of not only his own husband but his brother's as well in his hands and he would not fail them- he would NOT! He had never shown Mycroft, much less told him, how grateful he was for all these things. There had been no kind words of appreciation or affection that passed between them and now there never would be. But he would sacrifice himself for the others and he hoped his actions would speak for him.

His reverie was shattered by the rough voice filled with contempt that spoke in his ear with fetid breath, "Time's up you pretty fuck toy. Too bad I'm not willing to lay hands on filth like you cause I'd send you off knowing what a real man feels like splitting you open like a roasted pig. Not for me though, or me Sean even if he is a sissy boy. He's all I got left thanks to you and it's time we settle up."

As he heard the hammer being pulled back on the gun, Sherlock reached out for John's hand and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

From the report of the shot, Sherlock could tell it was from a small caliber handgun perhaps a derringer and from the shout of pain it was obvious the wound had not been a fatal one. The older Hunter wheeled towards the door gun at the ready when what could only be described as a primordial scream of rage rang off the solid walls followed a moment later by Mycroft Holmes slashing the air with the razor sharp sword that normally resided placidly within his favorite umbrella.

He assessed the circumstances within seconds using the assailants brief shock to his advantage. Before the gun could be steadied once more Mycroft swung the sword as if the power of the universe was behind him and neatly sliced off Ian's gun hand right below the wrist. The resulting blood spray patterns on the walls made Sherlock eager to take pictures until John's voice echoed in his Mind Palace. "Out cold on the floor here you wanker. Bit not good."

Before Sherlock could scramble to his feet Mycroft's "battalion" of minions swarmed the room tending to Greg and John and, at Mycroft's reluctant insistence, applying a tourniquet to his vanquished foe. Raising one eyebrow sardonically he turned to Sherlock, "I'm sorely tempted to save the Crown the cost of a trial and imprisoning these two brain trusts, but I doubt Gregory would approve. Oh, Wilkens, best collect that hand and place it on ice. Mustn't deprive the Daily Mail of their latest gory limb reattachment story even if it will read that it was the result of criminal activity gone awry."

Only then did Mycroft drop his mask and kneel at the side of his husband already prepared, along with John, for transport to secure suites at Bart's that were reserved for occasions such as these.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The heated demands to be sent home ignored, there were two beds being currently occupied in the double suite at the hospital.

John was none too happy with his thundering headache or his own self proclaimed stupidity at being unarmed during a chase but his curiosity got the better of him. "I hear you're quite the swashbuckling hero, Mycroft. How did you manage it?"

Greg groaned in irritation both at what he knew was coming and the dressing that was pulling on the shallow flesh wound on his neck. "I'll tell you how. Despite my going on about him not watching me like a goldfish in a bloody bowl I know he still has surveillance on all three of us and I suppose this time it was for the best. But by all means Myc go on and impress us."

Mycroft actually snorted, an action that drew an opened mouthed gasp from Sherlock. "In the simplest terms Sherlock did an excellent job of presenting me with enough clues to choose the proper action. When I approached the son it was apparent he was not only paralyzed with fear but no match for me. However, I could not risk losing the element of surprise by engaging him in hand to hand combat. Thus the bullet to the foot."

Sherlock couldn't help himself, "About that, a 'kill shot' to a foot and a severed hand. Might I suggest John entitle this blog the Case of the Offending Appendages?"

"Hilarious as always I see. As I was saying, looking past the boy before I shot I deduced Sherlock had thrown his body over John while taking care to cover Gregory's head with a good deal of the Belstaff indicating that you both were alive but presumed dead. Of course, John, Sherlock's first allegiance was to you as his husband but he did all he was able to also protect my dear Greg. From that point on I knew it was merely a matter of subduing the only remaining threat which was more the gun than the hand holding it. Therefore- I dealt with it in what I felt was the most efficient manner."

John whistled the strange alien like sound he sometimes made when sloshed and grinned, "Sorry I missed it."

It was Greg's turn to snort, "If I know my loving husband you haven't, mate. I reckon he's got it all somewhere on CCTV for us to watch with a barrel of popcorn and a bottle of hundred year old Scotch. Haven't ya, darlin'?"

Distainfully ignoring the endearment Mycroft smiled softly nonetheless, "Possibly, probably... yes."

Sherlock moaned, "Oh spare us the agony. We will NEVER hear the end of this."

The nurse came around for the perfunctory vitals check and dispensing of pain medications which brought a lull to the conversation. When they were alone again, John and Greg were both fighting to remain awake.

"Perhaps it would be best, Sherlock, if we depart and allow our spouses to recover in peace. We can return at the earliest hour tomorrow; I will come for you in my car."

He reached across and squeezed John's shoulder in an unmistakable display of warmth, "Please recuperate quickly, John. The thought of Sherlock without your influence is beyond the pale."

Then he turned to Greg and kissed his forehead lightly, then his lips with more fervor. "As for you Detective Inspector, anything less than a return to full vigor is unacceptable."

Greg sighed contentedly, "Understood your Majesty."

John actually managed a giggle prompting Sherlock to kiss his face over and over murmuring I love you until John giggled more and pushed him gently away. "Take him home Mycroft and make sure he eats and sleeps. Sit on him if you have to."

Mycroft threw a mock salute, "Heard Captain Watson."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ride to 221B was made in silence but, evidently taking John's admonishment to heart, Mycroft followed Sherlock upstairs to the flat. The tantrum that followed did nothing to deter Mycroft from ordering a Michelin quality supper delivered from who knows where that even Sherlock could not resist.

After the meal and a good bottle of wine, both men began to succumb to the aftereffects of their ordeal. When Mycroft made to rise from the sofa he was rather unsteady on his feet from both wine and exhaustion.

"Apologies, I fear my balance is suffering from the absence of my umbrella. It will be a day or so to have it properly restored to pristine condition." To his embarrassment his second effort found him plopping down unceremoniously back on the sofa.

Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably and felt his cheeks flush red when his normally deep voice cracked like a boy entering puberty. "Ah, Mycroft... it seems rather ill advised if not foolish for you to leave here for a few hours only to return at the crack of dawn. You are welcome to stay here for the night."

Before Mycroft could object Sherlock pressed on. "I know you always carry a full change of clothing in your cars and I assure you that my bath and hair products are every bit as posh if not more so than yours. Perhaps, considering the the events of the last hours, solitude would not be conducive to a refreshing night's sleep."

"I would not wish to disturb your routine."

"You always disturb me, Mycroft, but the offer stands. As we no longer have the second bedroom upstairs we will need to share the king sized bed in John's and my room but the sheets are freshly changed daily so there are no concerns on that subject."

"This may be foreign to you but since my marriage to Gregory I have some experience with less than sanitary bedding, but good to know. As for your invitation, it is indeed prudent and much appreciated."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even as children the Holmes Boys didn't engage in any pre-bedtime roughhousing or nonsense although Sherlock did have memories of Mycroft reading him the Adventures of Robinson Crusoe or Treasure Island. This night was no exception. Ablutions were performed efficiently without comment and soon they were settled under the duvet in the darkened bedroom as rain pattered against the windows. 

"This bed will be quite suitable to my needs and I hope you are able to rest. I should not wish to incur the disfavor of your Doctor."

"You know I find sleep a waste of time but I think tonight it is unavoidable. Goodnight Mycroft."

"Sweet dreams Lock."

It was phrase Mycroft hadn't uttered nor had Sherlock heard in years but it broke something in the younger Holmes.

"Myc, today, I thought I was going to...well never mind that but I realized there is something I always meant to say and never did. That was my error and I...that is...about today what you did for me- for all of us...I... Thank you, Brother."

It wasn't the three words he'd meant to say but they would have to do. He had no more left in him as sleep pulled at his body.

Mycroft was still, then he placed his fingers in Sherlock's curls ruffling fondly as he did so long ago. "You are most welcome Brother mine. Now and always."

In minutes Sherlock was sleeping soundly while Mycroft watched over him as if he were that little boy who loved to play pirates once again. He would give his life many times over for that boy and the man child he had become. In his own heart he knew that Sherlock hadn't really said what was on his mind. They were the wrong three words but Mycroft was fluent in dozens of languages and spoke "Sherlockian" perfectly. 

"Thank you Brother" translated smoothly to "I love you". Mycroft might never hear those words pass his baby brother's lips directed at him, but he knew what Sherlock meant and for the big brother and the British Government that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> To all who will celebrate American Thanksgiving this Thursday may you enjoy a bounty of blessings.
> 
> To those who don't, take a moment to think on the things you are most thankful for and be glad of them.
> 
> I'm so grateful for my readers and friends wherever you may be. All kudos and comments will be received by me with the greatest Thankfulness.  
> ❤️❤️❤️❤️ Pat


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